


Swapped

by writeonclara



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Awkwardness, Fireman Steve, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Meet-Cute, Never Forget Jimothy Barnes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romantic Comedy, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, Winifred Barnes is a Troll
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2018-12-06 12:10:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11600358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeonclara/pseuds/writeonclara
Summary: if u wanted my number u couldve just askedu didnt have to steal my whole phone ;)Steve stared down at his phone, confused. He didn't recognize the number – except, oh wait, he really did. That was his number. On his phone.He flipped the phone over, then slid one hand down his face. Not his phone.“Fuck,” he muttered.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Captain_D_Leet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_D_Leet/gifts).



**if u wanted my number u couldve just asked**

**u didnt have to steal my whole phone ;)**

Steve stared down at his phone, confused. He didn't recognize the number – except, oh wait, he really did. That was his number. On his phone.

He flipped the phone over, then slid one hand down his face. _Not_ his phone.

It was one of those horrible days where the temperature was good but the humidity made you swim in your own sweat. They had the garage door to FDNY 107/Ladder 19 up to catch an errant breeze, but the air was still and thick. It had been oddly peaceful, for once, and Steve shattered it with a muttered, “Fuck.”

Clint looked up from where he’d been sweeping, one side of his mouth quirking down. “You okay there, Cap?”

When Natasha rolled out from where she was inspecting the truck and tilted a curious eyebrow up at Clint, he said by way of explanation, “Cap dropped the f bomb.”

“No heckin’ way,” said Natasha.

“My delicate heckin’ ears,” Clint agreed, entire face scrunched in mock-affront. “Didn't he chew you out the other day for saying ‘hell?’”

Who thought it was a good idea to put Clint and Natasha in the same unit again? Steve swiped his finger across the screen to open the text, wincing at his own number at the top of the screen.

“Everything okay?” Sam asked, all concerned eyebrows, and there was a good reason why he was Steve’s favorite.

“Yeah,” Steve sighed. He held up the cellphone in explanation. Since it was a pretty terrible explanation, Sam raised an eyebrow. Steve waggled the phone and said, “I think I stole it at Blue Bottle this morning.”

Now Clint actually did look alarmed. “Uh, Cap? Are you feeling okay? You're not exactly the Hamburgler.”

Natasha snorted, which is probably why she and Clint worked so well together. No one else really appreciated his sense of humor. Clint flashed a goofy grin at her and she rolled her eyes back at him, but it was fond. Probably. Sometimes, it was hard to tell.

“I didn’t steal it on purpose,” Steve said, slightly affronted. He held the phone up. “It looks just like mine. I must have grabbed it on accident when I was leaving.”

He remembered setting his phone on the table, but after that he'd been strictly focused on devouring his three croissants and chugging his black coffee. He vaguely remembered a guy in a brown leather jacket and a black baseball cap hunched beside him at the long black table that served as a bar: that must have been the victim of his unintentional sticky fingers. 

“Dumbass,” Natasha muttered. Steve pretended not to hear her.

“It’s all busted up,” Sam said, frowning at the back of the phone. 

Steve flipped it over. It was pretty scuffed up, like the guy dropped it on a regular basis. He sighed. His own phone was in pristine shape. He should have noticed the difference earlier.

He tapped the screen uncertainly, then hit reply to the text.

**Sorry! I think I accidentally grabbed your phone at the Blue Bottle. Unfortunately, I have work until tomorrow morning. If it's not too much to ask, would you be able to swing by my work to pick it up?**

He read over the text again, chewing on his lower lip. _He_ should be the one to drop the phone off, but he couldn't leave the station for that long. So he sent the text anyway and hoped it wouldn’t be too out of the way for the stranger he stole the phone from.

A couple minutes later, his temporarily misappropriated phone buzzed with a new text.

**jfc my phone was stolen by a gma**

Steve let out an offended huff. He immediately swiped to tap out what was probably going to an overly self-righteous response he wouldn't send anyway, but they were called on a run and he completely forgot about his phone for the next hour.

* * *

**???**

**r u going to keep my phone bc i actually think urs is better**

Bucky didn't think his mysterious phone thief actually wanted his phone, but after the dig at his age, the guy had gone silent for well over an hour. Well, possible guy, Bucky wasn't too sure. There had been that pretty chick with shiny black hair tipped purple and a stud in the dip above her upper lip at the Blue Bottle this morning, and a tired looking cashier with his locs pulled up in a high ponytail and wearing a loose gray shirt, but Bucky thought it was probably the all American blond shaped like a freshly baked slice of apple pie. The blond had taken the seat next to Bucky and Bucky had smiled at him, but hadn't managed to keep eye contact. He remembered a strong jaw, full lips quirking up at him, and very blue eyes, and it wasn't like Bucky was _shy_ , except now he kind of was, sometimes.

Hell, who could blame him? The guy was stacked, and Bucky always did have a soft spot for a man in uniform, for all that he'd been one himself (and look where that got him).

The phone thief didn't respond. Bucky sighed and dropped the phone onto the cushion beside him.

“Hey, Cyborg,” Becca said, strolling behind the back of the couch to she could ruffle Bucky’s too long hair. In the months he’d been shacking up at his mom’s place, he’d gone from ‘needing a haircut’ to ‘somewhat disreputable.’

These days, most people walked around him like he was made of glass and they were juggling sledgehammers. It was nice that Becca managed to still be a little shit in spite of everything. 

“Hey, Becca. Look what I learned how to do.” He carefully maneuvered the still-unfamiliar metal fingers of his left hand to flip her off, then grinned up at her, incredibly pleased with himself. Stark Industries did a pretty damn good job with prosthetics, though Bucky thought Stark kind of had an unhealthy relationship with robotics. Not that he was complaining: his new arm looked pretty damn cool, a sleek shiny metal replica of the original, with shifting plates that gave him something close full mobility. It was top of the line, as responsive as an actual arm, and it was so convincing that he sometimes scratched the forearm, forgetting that actually, he couldn't feel an itch there and, oh yeah, it was metal.

Those were usually bad days. He had a lot of them in the beginning.

Becca stared at him for long enough that his smile faded. Bucky had been getting better (he _was_ , no matter how concerned his mother’s eyebrows were), but sometimes he got it wrong. But then Becca threw back her head and laughed, bright and with her whole body. She whipped out her phone and snapped a picture, wiping at the corner of her eye. 

“Bucky!” their mom called disapprovingly from the kitchen – the woman had eyes on the back of her head, swear to god – but he could hear the smile in her voice so he just twisted around and shot her his best grin. She shook her head, but then had to turn away to hide her own responding smile.

“You better not be putting that on MySpace,” Bucky called after Becca as disappeared down the hall. She yelled something insulting about his age in response, slamming her door after her. It felt weirdly nostalgic, like they were back in high school.

“You're not that old,” Bucky's mom said, stepping out of the kitchen to perch on the armrest of his chair. “MySpace hasn't been around for at least a year.”

Bucky side eyed his mom skeptically, then grinned when he caught her expression of exaggerated innocence. “Maybe I learned how to troll from the best.”

“I let her catch me trying to plug a usb into the wall. I think she nearly fainted,” his mom said, grinning back.

Bucky cackled, clapping his mom on the shoulder with his real hand. Winnie Barnes really was the best. “She's going to murder you when she finds out you have more followers on Twitter than she does.”

His mom smiled fondly down at him, running her fingers through his hair. “What are you doing today?”

Bucky had been planning on continuing his apartment search, but whenever he talked about moving out, her smile got tight in the corners and her eyes got a little misty. His mother had been living on her own for years now, but then Becca had broken up with her longtime boyfriend and Bucky had gotten his arm blown off in Afghanistan. 

(He'd been lucky. He hadn't _felt_ lucky, but he wasn't dead, and he'd had a place to come back to where he could shakily get back to his feet.)

His mom had complained until she was blue in the face about her two eldest kids mooching off her again, but Bucky knew she loved having them there and that even though she was unendingly supportive him, it killed her a little bit to know he was leaving again. So instead he fished The Cellphone out of his pocket and said, frustrated again, “Gotta find the schmuck who owns this phone.”

“Aren’t you that schmuck?” his mom asked, puzzling over the phone. It did look a lot like his; slightly better condition, maybe, but same make and model.

“I am A schmuck,” Bucky agreed. “But not the schmuck who owns this phone. He accidentally stole mine at Blue Bottle.”

“Stole your what?” Becca asked, reappearing to throw herself down on the couch beside him.

“His phone,” his mom said, plucking the phone out of his hand. It vibrated and his mom's eyebrows furrowed as she scanned over the text. Bucky grabbed it back. He felt oddly protective, like he had to shield the original owner from his family's snooping curiosity. 

There was a new text from the owner: **Sorry! Got a call and had to run.**

His mom lifted her eyebrows expressively at him. “Maybe he’s a doctor.”

Bucky stared at her in disbelief, then said, “ _Mom_. You can't try to hook me up with the guy who _stole my phone_.”

“I'm just saying,” his mom said.

The phone buzzed again and both his mom and Becca leaned forward, curious. Bucky pulled the phone out of their view with a glare. His mom had the decency to pretend like she hadn't been trying to snoop, but Becca just grinned at him, shameless.

**I hate to ask since this was all my fault, but could you drop it off at the station? FDNY 107/Ladder 19**

“He's a fireman,” Bucky said, without any input from his brain. Really, he should know better than to give his mother and sister ammo.

“Ooh!” Becca said, eyes bright. “This sounds like the beginning of a romcom.”

“Or a porn,” Bucky said.

“Bucky!” Mom said, scandalized. 

“Or a porn,” Becca agreed.

“I could only be so lucky.”

“Where did I go wrong?” his mom muttered, rubbing her temples. 

Bucky looked back down at the phone, hesitating. He didn't have problems with leaving the apartment now, but new places were sometimes tricky, especially ones that could erupt into controlled chaos if there was an emergency. He tapped his finger against the screen, then typed out: **ok**

“I’m going to take it to his station,” Bucky explained, rolling to his feet.

His mom opened her mouth to say something that would likely make Bucky feel like a helpless kid, but Becca quickly said, “Sneak a pic, will you?” before his mom got the words out. Bucky shot a grateful grin at her: he knew his mom was just worried, but her concern was sometimes enough to drive him up the wall.

* * *

Steve hummed Bing Crosby’s _Only Forever_ under his breath, dunking his arms elbow deep into the soapy water. His name appeared an unusual amount of times on the roster for dish duty, but he didn't mind. Washing dishes helped him relax after difficult days. This had been a particularly difficult day: the old man who had fallen down his stoop and injured his knee had been especially furious. Steve didn't blame him – he knew all too well what it felt like to feel helpless, hurt, and angry – but he didn't particularly appreciate being spat at.

Behind him, somebody cleared their throat.

Steve jumped and dropped the sponge, splashing soapy water all up the front of his shirt. “I swear to God, Nat, I'm gonna put a bell on you –” He turned around, but it wasn't Natasha standing at the door, smirking and a little wide eyed. It was the guy from Blue Bottle – except he wasn't hidden by a curtain of hair and a baseball cap. He was – he was –

“I am totally unprepared for this,” Steve muttered, because it had been a long day and now the front of his shirt was soaked, and the guy standing at the door with his hands shoved in his pockets was _really hot_. Strong frame, broad shoulders, a wide mouth that tilted naturally up in the corners. He was staring back at Steve, one corner of his mouth quirked up in a small smirk. Did he look interested? Steve couldn’t tell. He was _really_ bad at this kind of stuff.

“Is it just me, or does this feel like the beginning of a porn?” the guy asked.

Steve stared at him for a second, horrified, and then slid one hand down his face. Which was actually a huge mistake, since it was still covered in suds.

“I mean, your shirt is all wet and you're a fireman. It's like the perfect opportunity for you to start stripping –”

Steve barked a laugh, unable to stop himself, and grabbed the towel from his shoulder to dry his hands and face. When he looked back up, the guy was grinning at him, wide and delighted. On closer look (not that Steve was looking closely – well, okay, he was, but who could blame him?), there were fine lines around the corners of his eyes and deep grooves etched into his forehead. He was smiling, but his shoulders were stiff, and his eyes were hard. Steve recognized that look.

“Here,” the guy said, fishing Steve's phone out of his pocket. He was wearing a long sleeved black Henley and black gloves, but Steve could hear a faint whirring when he moved his arm. He held it up to Steve; his movements were slow and methodical, like he was hyperaware of every small motion. 

Steve slung the towel back over his shoulder and took the phone. “Listen, I am really sorry.” He fished the guy’s phone from his own pocket and held it out. 

“Oh, you don't have to be,” the guy said, methodically wrapping each finger around the phone. His tone was flirty, but his eyebrows were slightly furrowed and he was staring intently at the phone. When all his fingers successfully wrapped around the phone, he grinned triumphantly, like that was the best thing he’d done all day. It explained why the phone was so beat up, not that Steve was going to bring it up.

“Well, um – ” What did you say in situations like these? The guy was cute and flirty and totally projecting his interest – but Steve had _no idea_ how to get from point A to point will you Be my date for Saturday night? His instinct was to apologize again, so he just stood there, like a lump, and rubbed the back of his head.

“Yeah,” the guy said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Anyway, I better – ” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, his smile tight and his posture tense, like he hadn't just been joking about porn. “See ya, I guess.”

“See you,” Steve said, weakly, and felt like he was watching an opportunity stroll out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time Bucky met Steve Rogers in person, it was three weeks later and he was standing barefoot in front of his building with his mother and sister, desperately hoping he wasn't going to contract hepatitis A from Brooklyn’s streets. Black smoke was billowing out of the apartment window two floors up from theirs. The adrenaline from their mad dash out the apartment had faded and Bucky was half asleep, cold, and miserable.

“I swear to God someone is going to die for this,” Becca growled, huddling closer to their mother’s side.

“Becca,” their mother admonished, but she looked a bit like she wanted to kill someone, too.

“I bet it was that dumbass Smith,” Bucky muttered, wrapping his arms around himself. He'd only had time to throw on a short sleeved shirt before he had to scramble into the family room to grab his mom’s gray and white British Shorthair. The cat was secure in his mom’s arms, grumpily frowning at anyone who came too close.

“Bucky!” their mother protested, more firmly.

“Oh my God!” Becca abruptly grabbed Bucky’s arm – his metal one, the one no one touched, not even to brush up against. Bucky jumped. It didn't – he couldn't actually feel anything, not like a real arm. Stark’s prosthetics were good, but not that good.

He was trying to figure out how to get Becca’s hand off his arm without drawing attention from their ma, who would take it the wrong way, when a hesitant voice said, “Bu...cky?  
  
The rest of the Barnes’ snapped their gazes up and there was a tall blond shaped like a slice of pizza, decked out in full gear, his helmet tucked under one arm and blond hair mussed in a way that Bucky was _not_ going to think about in current company.  
  
Right. Steve the _firemen_. Who fought _fires_.  
  
Bucky rubbed at his metal arm, feeling more exposed than if he had been dancing naked on the street to Mariah Carey. But although Steve definitely had to have noticed his arm in his assessing once over, his expression didn't show even a hint of pity, and Bucky may have fallen just a bit in love with him for that. He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back a little on his heels.  
  
“You alright?” Steve asked in that low smooth tone that sounded just a shade too intimate.  
  
Bucky might have swallowed his tongue. He cleared his throat. “Yeah! Yeah. We're fine.” He glanced over his shoulder at his mom and sister, who were whispering frantically at each other. The cat looked as unimpressed as Bucky felt. “Well, for a given value of ‘fine.’”  
  
Steve turned his charming grin on his mother and Becca, and Becca made a strangled little sound. She wiggled her fingers in a small wave, her lips twitching like she was desperately trying not to laugh.  
  
Yeah, she was _so_ dead.  
  
Steve turned back to Bucky, one corner of his mouth still quirked in a lopsided grin. “The good news is there’s no actual fire,” Steve said, flicking a glance towards the window. “Your neighbor was cooking a frozen pizza and he decided to – take a nap.”  
  
“Passed out drunk,” Bucky translated.  
  
“Yes,” Steve said. He opened the front of his coat and pulled out, of all things, a pair of flimsy slippers. “It's all we had on hand in the truck, but I saw you were barefoot and thought you could use them.”  
  
Damn. Steve could probably charm even old Mrs. Shang from the from apartment 710. Bucky took the slippers, his cheeks warm, and just _knowing_ Becca was probably somehow recording this whole thing.  
  
“You are just too good,” his mom said, coming up to Bucky's side with her unimpressed cat. Bucky dropped the slippers and toed them on, refusing to look up again until his blush faded. “What did you say your name was?”  
  
As if she didn't know, the meddling harpy.  
  
“Steve Rogers, ma’am,” Steve said, in that ‘aw shucks’ way that would win the heart of any mother.  
  
Winnie Barnes smiled brightly at him and Bucky stared, like watching a horrible trainwreck, when his mother opened her mouth and said, “He’s single, you know.”  
  
“Ma!” Bucky yelped.  
  
“I'm just saying,” said his mom.  
  
Bucky slid his hand down his face, which actually kind of hurt a little because, metal. What has he done to deserve this?  
  
“Oh, really?” Steve said, and Bucky looked up in time to see Steve considering him, blue eyes curious and – and _interested_ , holy fuck.  
  
“I – ” Bucky started to say, but was interrupted when another geared up guy shouted, “Hey, Cap!”  
  
Steve glanced over his shoulder at the guy, waving an acknowledgement, before turning back to the Barnes. “That's my cue.” His eyes slid over to Bucky. “I'll – text you. If that's alright, I mean. Only if you, um, want.” He stopped himself, wincing.  
  
“You're terrible at this,” Bucky said, eyes wide in revelation.  
  
“Shut up,” Steve said, grinning ruefully. He tossed off a sloppy salute and jogged back to the other fireman.  
  
They watched him go in silence.  
  
“If you don't marry him, Jimmy, I will,” Bucky’s mom said.  
  
“I'm disowning you both,” Bucky said, but even he could tell his grin was completely ridiculous.

* * *

“You look good.”

Bucky tilted his head back on the couch to look up at Becca. His laptop was propped on his legs and he was nursing a beer, which he figured he deserved after this stupid night. Becca leaned against the back of the couch, folding her arms on one of the back cushions.

“It’s two a.m. and I can’t sleep,” Bucky grumbled. “I feel like shit.”

“Yeah, but you _look_ good.”  
  
“What does that even mean?” Bucky complained.

Becca shrugged, pushing away from the couch. “I think you should text your hot fireman. Some booty does the body good.”

“Stop saying ‘good,’” Bucky said, and then sputtered. “He’s not my – I don’t want – _Becca_.”

“Don’t lie.” Becca pushed away from the couch, wiggling her fingers at him. “I’m going to bed. ‘Night, bro.”

He really wasn't going to, but then he couldn't sleep, and he was a little tipsy, which meant he was full of terrible ideas.

**i bet if u did one of those sxy firemen calendars u could raise a ton of money**

Like that, for instance. Texting Steve at three in the morning about hot firemen calendars was a terrible idea. Well, at least there really wasn't anything to lose. Not as if he and Captain Rogers had done more than exchange like, three words and a handful of texts.

He imagined that perfect face screw up in self righteous offense and dropped the phone to his chest. More likely he had just interrupted the beauty sleep of the finest of the city’s finest and –

His phone buzzed.

**Did that last year.**

Bucky shot up.

**no way**

**what month were u**

**do u still have a copy**

It took Steve a minute to respond to Bucky’s slew of texts – probably the poor guy was trying to sleep instead of being pummeled with questions by a restless stranger too thirsty for his own good.

A second later his phone buzzed again, this time with a slightly blurry photo of Steve – topless, in his fireman pants and helmet – leaning against the side of a gleaming fire truck.

Bucky may have gasped out loud.

**July. It's my birth month.**

**omg**

**right click save new contact photo added**

Steve didn't respond for several minutes and Bucky spent the time scrolling anxiously through Facebook. Was that too flirty? Or – creepy? These days, Bucky was so far out of the game he wasn't even in the stadium anymore.

**That's only fair if you send a shirtless picture back**

It said something about him that he didn’t even hesitate to turn the front camera on and snap a picture of himself. His room was dark and he hadn’t bothered with flash, but Stark phone cameras to of the line and nearly as good as SLRs, and the picture of himself was clear: long hair fanned out on his pillow, lips quirked up in a grin that was way more goofy than seductive, and chest very much bare, though not glistening. He sent it.

**Jesus**

Bucky laughed, sliding a hand through his hair. There was a hum under his skin, like a precursor to arousal.

**is this like sexting foreplay**

**I have no idea, I’ve never sexted in my life.**

**me neither but i hear its the new thing**

**sorry am i being too forward**

That probably was being too forward. Bucky was being too forward. Steve wasn’t responding. Well, okay, Bucky maybe dropped his phone on his chest and passed out before Steve could respond.

When he woke up the next morning, Steve had simply sent, **You’re good, Bucky.**

* * *

**So you're single. Interested in not being single?**

Steve stared down at the text, then quickly deleted the whole thing and closed out the entire program in a fit of paranoia. There was no way he could ever be that bold. Or _corny_.

To his left, a locker slammed shut. Steve jumped. Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. “Why are you glaring at your phone like it just insulted your mother?”

Steve made a disgusted noise and tossed his phone on the bench. “I have the social aptitude of a turnip.”

Sam’s other eyebrow went up. “Interesting comparison,” he said, slowly.

Steve raked one hand down his face. “I’m a thirty year old man and I don’t know how to ask someone out,” Steve ground out, muffled by the hand hiding his face.

“Is _that_ what you’re angsting about?”

Steve just groaned into his hand.

“Look, man, it’s not that hard. All you need to say is, ‘do you want to grab lunch?’”

“It’s not that easy,” Steve said.

“It’s only complicated because you’re making it complicated,” Sam said, and plucked the phone off the bench.

“Hey – ” Steve made a swipe for it, but Sam yanked out of his reach, quickly tapping away at the screen. Before he could make another grab for it, Sam held it back out to him.

“Sam! What did you do?” Steve demanded.

“Helped.”

Steve looked down at the text and the back of his neck immediately prickled in slight terror.

**Want to grab lunch?**

“ _Sam_ ,” Steve hissed.

“See? Easy.” Sam shrugged. “Look, I even typed like a grandpa.” He pointed at the screen. “Like you.”

When Steve just clutched the phone with both his hands, Sam’s face softened into something like pity with a healthy dose of, ‘are you serious right now’ and, okay, Steve really _was_ terrible at this. “It’ll be fine, Cap.”

“He might not even be interested.”

The pity faded and Sam said, “Are you serious?” disgusted, and grabbed the phone from him – again – tapping a few keys until that picture of Bucky – shirtless, and smiling brilliantly – beamed up at him. Steve snatched the phone away from him and shoved it in his pocket, reasonably sure Sam wouldn't go through his pants just to steal it from him again.

“I just mean – ” Steve faltered when his phone buzzed against his thigh. Dreading, hoping, he pulled it back out of his pocket.

**thought u would never ask**

Sam couldn’t see the screen, but he must have read what Bucky said all over Steve’s face because he said, smugly, “I told you.”


	3. Chapter 3

Becca dumped another pile of clothing on his bed, then hooked a gray-blue shirt v-neck that was cut low enough to be considered douchey and held it up to Bucky’s chest. He scowled at himself in his closet mirror, then at her. This was a lousy idea. What the hell was he doing, pretending to be a well-adjusted adult capable of doing normal things like dating? He was a _mess_ and this was going to be a disaster.

“Blue,” she decided. “It’ll make your eyes pop.”

“I ain’t wearing that,” Bucky said, his lip curling in distaste. “Where did you get that? No way did I buy that.”

Becca twisted it around to consider the front. “I think ma got it for you.”

“I know she wants grandkids but I resent being whored out. I ain’t that kind of lady.”

“You really are, don’t lie.” Becca snickered and thrust the shirt at Bucky. “Just try it on. And put your hair up. Man buns are in, greasy curtains are out.”

“I washed my hair.” Bucky glowered at her in a way that used to make his direct reports quiver in fear. Since she was a giant brat, she just smirked and patted his shoulder and skipped out of the room like she was ten again.

He sighed and twisted his hair into a low bun because even though _Bucky_ was the technical playboy in his family, he wasn’t above taking fashion advice from his dorky younger sister. Especially since these days Becca was the one with an eye for style and if he had it his way he would wear was a pair of faded gray sweats and a maroon henley every day. 

He threw on the blue shirt and then just – stared at himself. He looked huge and awkward and equal parts panicked and murderous. Worse – his arm was completely exposed, the cloth stretched thin over the metal plates. _Exactly_ how he wanted to look for a first date.

“Bucky?” His mother knocked on the door, mostly for show, because she pushed into the room without waiting for a response. She took one look at him and clutched her hands to her chest. There was a suspicious shine to her eyes, like she was going to get all weepy on him for doing Normal Human Things. He desperately hoped she wouldn’t. He didn’t have it in him to be comforting at the moment.

“I look like the hipster Terminator,” Bucky informed her.

“Meaning you’re going to go around terminating hipsters or Arnold Schwarzenegger in skinny jeans?”

“The latter,” he said, then paused. “Both.”

She snorted and crossed the room, reaching up to flatten a loose strand of hair. “Darling, you look very handsome.”

“You have to say that, you’re my mother,” Bucky grumbled, hunching into himself.

“Well, you have half of my genetics, so I stand by what I say,” his mother said, grinning sweetly at him.

Bucky snorted. In the mirror, his eyes were still shadowed and his lips were still curved in an angry frown, but the tense knot between his shoulder blades unfurled, just a little.

“Now remember, darling, don’t put out on the first date,” his mother said, cheerfully obliterating Bucky’s desire to _ever have sex ever again_.

“ _Ma!_ ” Bucky howled and clutched the sides of his head.

“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t want anyone to think my first born is fast,” his mother said, as innocent as a lamb.

“He totally is!” Becca called from the family room.

“I am _leaving_ ,” Bucky said and fled before his mother could traumatize him even further, the freakin’ troll. She didn’t even try to muffle her cackling laughter before the apartment door slammed shut behind him.

* * *

The date started off well enough.

Steve looked – pretty fucking amazing, in his gray shirt that was just a shade too tight and his brown leather jacket. Bucky didn’t miss the way Steve’s eyes dipped to stare at his clavicles, and okay, maybe there was something to be said about douchey v-necks. He prowled up to Steve, feeling pretty good about himself. There was no better confidence booster than having someone like _Steve Rogers_ look at you with eyes like _those_.

“Hey there good lookin’,” Bucky said, flashing a crooked grin. “Heading my way?”

The smile that bloomed on Steve’s face made Bucky’s heart do a funny little flip and he could feel his face get all dopey in response. Whatever his expression was made _Steve’s_ face get all soft and dopey, and they probably would have spent the entire date grinning at each other if a little old Asian lady hadn’t bumped into Steve and then cursed at him in Chinese for blocking the sidewalk with his humongous body.

“You look great,” Steve said, holding the door open for Bucky, and Bucky totally caught him checking out his ass. Instead of looking apologetic for being caught out, Steve just smirked and shrugged one shoulder, his ears tinged a little red.

Bucky was _thrilled_.

So the date had _started_ good, but then Bucky’s fucked up brain decided that this would be a perfect time to take a detour from reality. Of course. Bucky Barnes can’t have good things, after all.

He wasn’t even sure what triggered him. Maybe it was the bustle of the deli, which was really just a counter with some bar seating at the window. Maybe he’d gotten too excited for the date. Hell, maybe it was the bang of a refrigerator being slammed shut, but there he was, anxiety closing his throat and seizing his muscles. He drew in a deep breath through his nose, released it through his mouth.

He must have lost some time, because the next thing he knew he was sitting at the bar, Steve sat next to him, the skin around his eyes etched with concern. “You alright?”

He was not fucking alright. The room was closing in on him. Everything was too bright and too loud. He felt his body go very still even as his heartbeat drummed in his ears and his insides twisted into knots. The exit was just three feet away, but it was blocked by a thick line of customers.

Warm fingers touched his wrist. Bucky jerked in surprise, then gritted his teeth and lowered his eyes. Steve probably thought he was a total headcase. And he _was_. Why the fuck was he freaking out at a goddamn deli?

“Bucky,” Steve repeated, gently. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Steve’s pity was almost as bad as the panic attack trying to claw its way up Bucky’s throat. He knew he _needed_ to get out, but pride was a stupid, dangerous thing. “I’m fine,” Bucky said.

“We can go somewhere else,” Steve said, his face creasing. “Maybe – ”

“I said I was fine!” Bucky snapped. The couple beside them went quiet, then quickly started up their conversation again. A hot prickle of embarrassment burnt its way up his chest and into the back of his throat. This was stupid. He was being fucking stupid. But even though he was sucking in huge breaths, he couldn’t get enough _air_.

“Hey,” Steve said, lowering his head so that his eyes were in Bucky’s direct line of vision. Somehow, Bucky felt like Steve’s fireman side was coming out to the rescue, and he had to stifle a hysterical laugh at the idea. “Focus on me, alright? It’s just me and you here.”

Bucky stared into Steve’s eyes. His heart was going to fucking hammer its way out of his chest. He couldn’t – there wasn’t enough –

“Breathe with me,” Steve said.

“This,” Bucky squeezed out, “fucking _sucks_.”

A small smile curved one corner of Steve’s mouth and he took Bucky’s flesh hand into both of his. Bucky was pathetically grateful he didn’t touch his metal arm. “I know, but we’ll be okay.”

Bucky stared on their hands; the warmth of the touch grounded him, helped him focus on his gulping in air. Unconsciously, he mimicked Steve’s deep, deliberate breaths, and then he sagged, dropping his head into his trembling hands. His heart was starting to slow down, but he still needed to drag air into his too-tight lungs. “Okay. I’m ready to go now.”

Steve must have read his mood, because he didn’t try talking to him as they made their way out of the deli, just held the door open for him like a perfect gentleman and then strolled casually by his side. Bucky instinctively headed back to his mother’s. He shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders coming up to his ears. This was _the worst_. He’d just gone and fucked up his first chance at a – a relationship, or whatever – since he’d gotten back from Afghanistan. They walked all the way to his apartment building’s front door without saying a word, but when Bucky reached out to grab the handle, a strong hand wrapped around his wrist.

“Listen,” Steve said. “Whatever you’re thinking, you need to stop.”

“What?” Bucky asked, startled from his thoughts.

Steve faced him, eyes gentle. “I can practically see the black cloud over your head right now. I need you to know that I like you just as much as I did two hours ago.”

“Crazies get you off?” Bucky snapped, which was just – _awful_ , god, but his hackles were up, and Bucky’s best defense was to drive everyone away before they could hurt him any further.

Apparently, Steve was made of sterner stuff. He squeezed Bucky’s wrist. “That is such an outdated term.”

Bucky snorted meanly. “Okay, PC police.”

“I’m not going to make any assumptions,” Steve said, carefully. “But I’m pretty familiar with PTSD.”

And Bucky just deflated, shoulders sagging. He lowered his eyes, unable to continue looking at Steve’s earnest face. “Sorry,” he mumbled, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m going to head in now.”

Steve’s scuffed chukka boots didn’t move for a moment, and then Steve released a quiet breath. “Okay. I’ll – see you around?”

Bucky nodded jerkily, thankful beyond words that Steve didn’t try to push it. He spun around and entered the building without another word.

* * *

Bucky stormed to his bedroom, not even stopping to acknowledge Becca’s excited, “How did it go?” or his mother’s slowly falling face (though he did detour to the kitchen to grab a bottle of whisky and the entire loaf of babka his mother had picked up from Dean & Delucca). There was no way in hell he could handle their disappointment on top of his own. He locked the door, then, in a fit of paranoia, shoved his entire bookcase in front of it. He needed privacy, not his mother jimmying the lock to worry over her eldest. 

This didn’t stop both his mother and Becca from knocking on the door and asking, “Are you alright?” and “What the hell happened, Buck?” He pulled his pillow over his head and ignored them.

“Bucky,” Becca said, hesitant, her voice muffled by rows of epic sci-fi novels. “Do you need me to beat him up?”

Bucky choked on a laugh, pushing the pillow harder into his face, then flipping it under his head. “Nah, Bec. He’d wipe the floor with you.”

“That all American dreamboat?” Becca asked, growing more confident now that Bucky had finally responded. “I doubt he’d ever hit a little lady.”

Bucky said nothing for a long moment, then sighed and threw an arm over his face. The metal one, which hurt like a bitch. “If you need to beat anyone up, it’d be me. _I’m_ the fuckup.”

He refused to say anything after that, just glared at the ceiling and ripped into the babka until they finally stopped trying to talk to him.

He’d been good at what he did – too good, good enough to get noticed, good enough to get into special ops. Which meant a whole lot of unconventional shit that would probably require years of therapy to work through, except he had a giant red CONFIDENTIAL stamp on his entire military career. So instead he got to deal with all his repressed _emotions_ spilling out at the most inconvenient times.

Exhaling a deep, irritated breath through his nose, he grabbed his phone to throw on the newest Red Rising audiobook and play some Spider Solitaire – his goto coping mechanism – then froze. The lock screen was the default stock image that came preloaded on the phone, not the vintage strongman Becca had changed his to a couple of weeks ago as a joke. Apparently, while he was busy melting down at the deli, he’d had enough brainpower to throw his phone and keys on the bar, but not enough brainpower to grab the right phone when he’d left. Which meant he, yet again, had Steve’s goddamn phone.

* * *

It had been three hours since their date, long enough for Steve to realize that he had Bucky’s phone. He’d fretted about it, then set down on his kitchen counter and resolutely ignored it until he could decide what to do. He’d just settled on texting Bucky in an hour, since he was pretty sure Bucky wouldn’t want to hear from him for awhile, but he actually did need his phone, when Bucky’s phone vibrated with a new message from _Steve Rogers HOTTIE WITH A BODY_. 

**i stole ur phone**

**first we had a shit date and then I stole ur phone**

**sry**

Steve rubbed his lower lip. He had enough experience with PTSD to understand that Bucky’s disgust wasn’t directed at him, but navigating this post-date conversation felt a bit like taking a walk through a minefield.

**It’s alright, seriously.**

**im sorry for being a jerk**

**Never apologize for your default setting,** Steve responded, because sometimes the filter between his brain and his mouth totally failed at preventing him from being a total asshole. But Bucky was kind of a jerk, as proven by their previous text conversations, and it was part of the reason why Steve liked him. 

There was a moment of dead air as Steve tried to figure out how to say all that without sounding like a – a masochist or something, and then the phone buzzed with an incoming call and _Steve Rogers HOTTIE WITH A BODY_ flashed across Bucky’s screen.

 _“Oh my god,”_ Bucky said when Steve picked up, sounding slightly awed and about three million times better than he had during their date. _“Good Guy Steve Rogers is actually kind of an asshole, huh?”_

Steve winced. He should probably apologize, but – better to be upfront with what Bucky was getting himself into, if he wanted to – get himself into anything with Steve. “Well.”

 _“No no,”_ Bucky said. _“This is good, Rogers. It makes me feel a lot less like an insolent dickhead when you let your hair down.”_

“I feel like it says something about you, Barnes, that you’re excited about finding out that I can be asshole,” Steve said and dropped onto his couch. His heart was still beating fast, but there was relief pumping through his veins now, too.

_“Yeah, it means I like smart-mouthed punks.”_

“Jerk,” Steve said, reflexively.

There was a moment of silence, but it was comfortable, like they were both too busy smiling to talk. Steve kicked his feet onto his coffee table and thought about letting Bucky know he’d be _so_ willing to try again, but only if Bucky wanted to.

 _“Why is this so much easier over the phone?”_ Bucky asked, and some of the brittleness from that afternoon was back into his voice. 

Steve frowned at his TV’s blank screen. “I – ”

 _“Wait, don’t answer that,”_ Bucky interrupted. _“I want you to date me, not be my therapist.”_

A small smile bloomed over Steve’s face. He’d hoped – _god_ , he’d hoped, but he wasn’t about to push Bucky into something he wasn’t ready for. “Maybe we could try again in a more contained place? Would you – what do you think about grabbing takeout and watching movies?” 

There was a beat of silence. _“Did you just ask me to Netflix and chill?”_

“I guess? Though maybe with less of the implied sexual overtures, I’m not _that_ easy.”

 _“Too bad,”_ Bucky growled, and okay, Steve was that easy. _“I’d like that,”_ he added, a little hesitantly.

Steve was sort of glad that Bucky couldn’t see his face at the moment. He was pretty sure his stupid grin would make him think twice about dating him. “Great. That’s – great. Does Saturday work for you?” He paused, then added, “Then you can give me back the phone you swiped, ya jerk.”

Bucky hesitated for long enough that sweat beaded on the back of Steve’s neck, but then he blew out a gusty laugh and said, _“Well, I needed a reason to see you again, didn’t I?”_


	4. Chapter 4

On the afternoon before Bucky’s date with Steve, Steve’s phone vibrated with a new text. Steve got a lot of texts; Bucky had already struck up a friendship with someone named Nat after she texted him a picture of a German Shepherd puppy, and just that morning ‘Sam’ had messaged him **hey hunky phone thief pls pick up some milk before your date with steve. i’d ask him but you stole his phone. again.** to which Bucky replied, **he stole it first** which earned him a **pls don’t tell me about your weird mating rituals. 2% milk. organic only. thx**.

Mostly he ignored the texts (unless they were directed to him, or cute puppies, he was only human), because it was a gross invasion of privacy, but he’d just pulled out the phone to check the time when a new text from Peggy Carter popped up.

**Can’t wait to see you! xx**

“Huh,” Bucky said.

Rebecca looked up from where she was reading a book on her phone. “What’s up?” she asked, and then she peered over at Steve’s phone. Bucky belatedly hid it against his chest, but not before her face twisted into a rictus of fury.

“What the hell,” Becca said, making a swipe for the phone. Bucky held it away from her, eyes widening. “What the hell!”

“Beck?” Bucky asked, surprised. He had no _idea_ why she would have such a strong reaction to such an innocent text. 

“That’s Steve’s phone, right?” Becca demanded, face going red with anger. “He’s not – is he – are you the _other woman_?”

“It’s just a text,” Bucky said, completely baffled. He slipped the phone back in his pocket, where he was pretty sure she wouldn’t make a go for it. “She’s probably just a fri – end, oh shit.”

There was a sheen of tears in Becca’s eyes and she quickly turned her head. Bucky cursed himself under his breath. He didn’t know exactly what went down between Becca and her ex-boyfriend; she didn’t talk about Carl very often, and Bucky had the uncomfortable feeling it was because she had incorrect feelings about ‘perspective.’ Like she didn’t think her problems were comparable in the face of Bucky’s shitshow of a life. 

What he did know was that Carl had cheated on Becca, and Becca had found out from a series of incriminating texts.

“God, ignore me,” Becca said, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes, like when they were kids. “I’m such a mess.”

Bucky hesitated for just a second, then carefully wrapped his metal arm around her shoulders. “I’m pretty sure being a mess is in our genes.”

Becca snorted grossly. “That doesn’t mean I should be projecting my problems on you. I mean, _god_. I got out of a bad relationship. I should be _grateful_ , right?”

“You were hurt by someone you trusted,” Bucky said, pulling her closer. She sagged against his side, but still refused to look at him. Bucky rubbed her shoulder. “Hey. Want me to make him disappear?”

Becca gurgled a laugh, then pushed his side. “I’ve seen Breaking Bad. That can only end badly.”

“Psh, those amateurs?”

Becca laughed again, and used the bottom of her shirt to blot at her smudged eyeliner, because she was classy like that. Then she sighed with her whole body. “I just want you to be happy, Buck.”

“Here.” Bucky fished the phone out of his pocket again. He opened a new text to Steve.

**got msg from peggy carter. fwding in case it’s important.**

It wasn’t the most artful of moves, but Bucky was doing it more for Becca than for himself. For all that he’d met Steve only a handful of times, he _really_ didn’t think he was a two-timer.

A moment later, the phone buzzed with a series of texts:

**Thanks, Buck!**

**She’s my best friend from high school. Lives in England and is coming by for business.**

**The x’s are a British thing I think.**

“See?” Bucky said, holding the phone out for Becca. 

Becca stared at the texts for a long moment. Her eyes were still red, but she no longer looked like she was going hunt down Steve on Bucky’s behalf. “God, for being a golden Adonis, he is a gigantic dork, huh?”

“Completely,” Bucky said, fondly.

“You two are perfect for each other, then,” Becca said, and Bucky whapped her on the arm with a throw pillow.

* * *

Two hours later, Steve flung the door open before Bucky could even draw his finger back from the buzzer. His eyes were wide and his shirt was untucked, and there was a huge wet splotch on the front of his white button up that was clinging _very_ distractingly to his flat stomach. 

Bucky’s eyebrows winged up. “Am I interrupting?”

Steve shot him a glare, though the corners of his lips quirked a little. He raked his fingers through his hair, further messing up his blond spikes. “You said you were fine with delivery, right?” he asked.

“I can make an exception just this once,” Bucky said. He held out the carton of 2% organic milk. “Milk.”

“I – see,” Steve said, taking it hesitantly. “Thank you? Usually people bring flowers, Bucky.”

Bucky chuckled. “Sam ordered me to buy a carton since he couldn’t reach you. I’ll bring flowers on our next date.”

Steve’s eyes lit up. “That’s – that’s great. Yeah.” He cleared his throat and turned around quickly. “Let me put this in the fridge.”

Bucky followed him into the apartment. It was homey, with high ceilings and wood floors, and a worn in brown couch in front of a fireplace. It also smelled like some sort of burnt meat. Bucky wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve muttered, stalking over to the fridge. “You try and do something nice for a guy – ”

Bucky sucked in his lips to hide his grin. “Kinda feel bad for whatever animal you sacrificed to impress me.”

“See if I share any of my delivery with you,” Steve said, bumping the refrigerator closed with his hip. He grabbed a dish towel to dab at the damp splotch on his shirt with a fatalistic look on his face.

Bucky slunk into the kitchen after him, grinning. “Is this how you greet all your dates, Rogers?” 

Steve flipped the towel back over his shoulder and _looked_ at Bucky, and Bucky had the sudden realization Steve Rogers was not the type of man to be challenged. He crowded right up into Bucky’s space – though he left more than enough room for Bucky to escape, which Bucky appreciated – and grinned down at him. Bucky’s heart twitched as Steve swooped up his flesh hand and pressed a kiss against his knuckles. He looked up at Bucky through his long eyelashes, one corner of his mouth quirking with a smug grin.

“That better?” he asked, straightening.

Bucky smacked him on the chest, turning his face away and rubbing his cheek to hide his sudden blush. “Maybe if it was 1890, you schmuck.”

Steve lifted an eyebrow, grinning salaciously. “Oh? So what’s the modern way to greet a fella?”

“Depends on how many dates you’ve had with him.”

“Second date?”

Bucky’s heart thumped against his ribs. Steve was still so fucking _close_. “You count that first disaster?”

“If it means I get a second-date greeting.”

Fuck it. Bucky leaned up and brushed his lips against the corner of Steve’s mouth which, gratifyingly, appeared to shock the hell out of him. Bucky drew back and licked his lips, and Steve’s lips parted slightly and, Jesus, it felt like there was a live wire taut between them. Bucky was wondering what it would take to convince Steve that ‘second-date greetings’ entailed getting bent over the kitchen table, when the doorbell buzzed. They both jumped.

Steve turned away with an exhaled, “Wow,” which made Bucky grin so hard that his cheeks hurt.

Ten minutes later and they were both sprawled on Steve’s ridiculously comfortable couch, plates overloaded with chow fun, potstickers, stir-fried veggies, and Peking duck. 

“I used to be able to use these things with both hands,” Bucky said, because it was apparently Overshare Hour with Bucky Barnes. “I taught myself to be proficient with my left hand when I broke my right wrist, and kept it up in case anything happened to my right arm again. Funny how shit works out, right?”

“At least you can use these damn things with one of your hands,” Steve grumbled, trying – and failing – to pick up a chow fun noodle.

Bucky gaped at him. Steve continued to struggle with his chopsticks for several seconds before he realized Bucky was staring at him. Some color flooded his cheeks. “Too far? S – ”

“How the _fuck_ did you survive in Brooklyn all these years if you can’t use chopsticks?” Bucky interrupted, appalled.

Steve barked a laugh. “Shut up, I never could get the hang of them.” He fished out the plastic fork from the greasy paper bag, shucking it out of its plastic wrap. It looked comically small in his huge hand, like it was a kid’s fork.

“Oh hell no. I can’t be seen with someone who doesn't know how to use chopsticks,” Bucky said, plucking the plastic fork away from Steve. He grabbed Steve’s chopsticks and placed them back in his hand. “You hold them like a weapon – you don’t gotta strangle them.” He maneuvered Steve’s hand with his own metal one. It was slow going, but Steve didn’t pull away, even though it must’ve felt weird to have metal fingers on him. “Hold this one like a pencil, and this one goes here on your ring finger like this – ”

Bucky looked at Steve’s face to make sure he was paying attention and found Steve staring back at him, his face very close. Bucky’s eyes tracked over the smooth curve of his cheek. His eyelashes were dipped low and his lips were slightly parted, wondering, and – maybe –

Bucky cleared his throat and released Steve’s hand, and then laughed in Steve’s face when he dropped the soup dumpling on his lap.

* * *

Of course Steve wanted to walk Bucky home after their dinner and a movie, because he really was the giant dork Becca had said he was. Bucky didn’t mind at all, especially when Steve started pointing out pertinent locations from his childhood.

“I got beat up in that alley,” he said.

“And behind that diner,” he said.

“And inside that froyo shop, once,” he said. “I think I’m still banned from that one, actually.”

“Oh my god,” Bucky said, torn between horror and wildly inappropriate laughter. “Why were you getting beat up all the time?” He looked Steve over slowly. “ _How_ were you getting beat up all the time?”

Steve grinned at him, completely unashamed, though he did color slightly at Bucky checking him out. “I was a scrawny kid who hated bullies. There are a lot of bullies in Brooklyn. Then I shot up a foot and gained about a hundred pounds. I still hate bullies, but when you’re my size and you go around fighting people and always win…” he shrugged, self-deprecating. “You start feeling like a bully yourself.”

Bucky squinted at him suspiciously as they walked up the stairs to Bucky’s apartment. “So are you telling me you became a fireman because you have a giant hero complex?”

Steve laughed. “You figured me out, Barnes.”

They stopped in front of the door, and for the first time the entire night, Bucky felt awkward. Steve was still smiling at him, but it was smaller. Softer.

“Do you – ” Bucky started to say, but was interrupted when the door flew open.

“Jimmy! You didn’t tell me you would be bringing a guest,” his ma said, primping her permed brown curls. Becca peeked over her shoulder, the biggest shit-eating grin pasted all over her face.

Bucky reached over and slammed the door shut again, then plastered himself against it for good measure.

“Bucky!” Becca shrilled and the door rattled. Bucky kept his hand on the doorknob, holding it in place. He was easily strong enough to hold the door shut.

“Jimmy?” Steve asked, eyes glinting with amusement. 

Bucky cocked one metal finger at him (normally, he would be chuffed by this show of fine motor skills, but he was a bit busy at the moment). “It’s _Bucky_. Not even my mom calls me Jimmy, which means she’s being a troll.” He shouted the last bit at the door. Predictably, his mother started ranting at him about how ungrateful he was and how Jimmy was a perfectly respectable name and how his great-great-grandfather Jimothy Barnes would be so disappointed –

That last one was a step too far. His mother was interrupted by Becca’s peals of laughter.

Steve held up both his hands, but the corners of his lips were twitching. “Bucky it is.” He paused and sucked his lips in, like he was trying to hold in a laugh. “Please tell me your first name is _actually_ Jimothy.”

“No!” Bucky bellowed.

It really said something about him that an innocuous lunch could send him into a full-blown panic attack, but the pandemonium caused by his family was just business as usual.

Steve lost the battle and doubled over with laughter, because he was a _gigantic dork_. “God, your family is great.”

“You can have them,” Bucky grumbled, only half lying. He turned to face the door. “Did you hear that! I’m giving you away!”

He was distracted by his mom and sister booing and hissing at him when warm lips pressed against his cheek, just grazing the corner of his mouth. When Steve pulled back, Bucky gaped at him, jaw slightly unhinged, eyes bugging out of his head.

“Is this okay?” Steve asked, still close. His eyes searched Bucky’s face.

“Um, _yes_?” Bucky said, and let go of the door knob to reach for Steve. Of course, that was when the door to the apartment was yanked open, completely unbalancing him. He fell back like a goddamn cartoon character.

“Oops,” Becca said unapologetically, grinning down at him.

“I _hate_ you,” Bucky said.

“Steve, it’s so good to see you again,” his mother said, stepping over Bucky’s legs and reaching out to grab both of Steve’s hands in her own. Bucky wasn’t quite sure how she managed to make herself look so fragile, but it was _definitely_ an act; his mother was the embodiment of an unstoppable force. 

“I apologize in advance for my family,” Bucky said, picking himself up from the floor.

Steve, to his credit, didn’t look _that_ steamrolled. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, ma’am. How is your cat doing?” he asked, earnestly.

His mother beamed up at him, completely won over by his good ol’ boy charm. “Fishy is doing great, thank you so much for asking.”

Bucky could practically see Steve roll that name over in his head. He could have told him not to bother. It was a family tradition to give their pets ridiculous, and sometimes inappropriate, names. (Bucky had grown up with a three-legged Maine Coon named Trident. He loved that damn cat.)

“I’m not sure if Bucky’s told you, but we’re having lunch on Sunday. It’s sort of a Barnes family tradition,” his mother said which – which was a _huge lie_ and also _what the fuck_.

“Woah woah, hold on,” Bucky yelped, inserting himself between Steve and his ma. “One, we have _no such_ tradition, what the hell, Ma, and two, you don’t need to listen to anything this mad woman says.”

Steve searched Bucky’s face and something he found there had the corner of his mouth curving up into something like a smirk. Bucky gaped. He didn’t think it was possible for good guy Steve’s face to look like that.

“I think that sounds wonderful, ma’am,” Steve said, shmoozily, and it was just then Bucky realized that his grandpa of a phone thief was actually kind of a _troll_. Oh dear god, what had he done, introducing his mother to Steve?

“What,” he said, deadpan, then jumped slightly when his mother drove her knuckle into his lower back.

“What Bucky _means_ to say is: bring wine,” Becca said.

Steve looked at Bucky, then at his overly-presumptuous family, then back at Bucky. He quirked a reassuring smile at him that was _so fake_ , oh my god. “I wouldn’t want to be a hindrance – ”

His mother ground her knuckle into his back again, but Bucky had already been thoroughly outplayed by Steve, thanks. “You’re not a hindrance, Steve,” Bucky said, shooting a nasty glare over his shoulder at his ma and sister. They looked perfectly angelic. “I just don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable situation.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Steve said, with a completely misplaced confidence, considering he had never met Bucky’s family before.

Bucky flung both his hands into the air. If Steve actually _wanted_ to be subjected to the full force of the Barnes family, after two dates, then – fine. Fine. “You guys win. We’ll do lunch on Sunday as is – apparently – tradition. It’s your funeral, Rogers,” he said, pissed off, but also oddly – gooey. Ugh.

“I’ll bring wine,” Steve said, cheerfully.

* * *

It wasn’t until eleven at night that Bucky realized he _still_ had Steve’s phone.


End file.
